Gerard Gutenberg took this photo of his friend and fellow Marine John Iavarone in November 1968 in Vietnam.

Courtesy of Gerard Gutenberg

He said he was calling from Lake Orion, Michigan, about 50 miles from Detroit.

His name was Gerard Gutenberg, and a friend had just sent him an old column of mine, which left him unsettled. The column, from 1993, was about a man named Jackie Iavarone, who died in Providence on America Street. Iavarone was 47 and had been a Cub Scout and graduate of Bishop Hendricken High School. He was also a Marine and veteran of Vietnam, where he was badly wounded. Once home, he never got back on track. He had problems with drugs. He died alone.

Gerard Gutenberg of Michigan told me he’d served with Iavarone. In the language of combat veterans, he said the two had been brothers there. Then, over the phone, across the miles, his voice caught.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m trying to keep it together.”

I was a bit busy, and wasn’t sure what to make of the call. It was 14 years later. But there are things I don’t understand about bonds formed in war. Perhaps I could learn something. I set aside what I was doing and waited for Gutenberg to compose himself.

He told me he is 59 and made his career at General Motors as a technical illustrator, doing exploded views for manuals that teach factory workers how to assemble the vehicles. He said he’s been blessed to have a job he loves. His wife of 23 years has a master’s and works at GM in engineering.

Any kids?

“My son was born the same day I left for Vietnam,” he said. “Dec. 8, 1967.” The child was from a first marriage. It ended in a divorce, which like so many had long-term fallout.

“He’s an artist in Colorado,” Gutenberg said proudly of his son. He added: “But he doesn’t communicate with me.”

I asked why the news of Jackie Iavarone’s passing, all these years later, struck him so deeply.

“Because I knew him,” said Gutenberg. “And I loved him.”

Gutenberg said he was a truck driver in the 9th Motor Transport of Charlie Company and Jackie Iavarone was in his circle.

“We all hung out together and we were really tight,” said Gutenberg. “We were happy to be with comrades, happy to be counting everyone at the end of the day, because we did lose some.” He mentioned a rocket landing near a tent one night. Shrapnel from it went into the head of a fellow Marine.

“We tried not to talk about the downside of it,” said Gutenberg. “What was relevant was what we were going to do when we got out of there. We all had families.”

Gutenberg’s tour was over before Iavarone’s. He assumed things had gone well for Jackie, because over the years, no one heard otherwise. His group tended to stay in touch and pass on news. But Jackie had cut himself off, even from family, in part because he was ashamed of his condition.

I wrote that 1993 article because I saw the obituary and was struck by the symbolism of a veteran who died in sad circumstances on America Street. At the time, I tracked down Jackie’s sister, a woman named Joan Barr, in Springfield, Mass.

She told me he’d gotten straight A’s at Hendricken, and enlisted to serve, but toward the end of his tour, his Jeep hit a land mine. “His arm was almost completely blown off,” said Joan. “They had to reattach it. He had skull, brain, face and leg injuries. He was in hospitals over a year, but he never really recovered.” She added: “Afterward, there was no way he could ever work. He couldn’t think clearly. He was on very heavy doses of anti-convulsive medications. He lived most of his life in pain. He really died in the Vietnam War.”

Gutenberg hadn’t known any of this until another veteran had somehow come across the column and sent it along.

Again, I asked how it is that Gutenberg remembered Jackie so deeply.

He joked that he can’t remember some things from last week, but that you never forget the closest of your fellow Marines.

“It’s like losing a sibling,” said Gutenberg. “He was such a good person. He was happy. It seems this war really hurt him deep. I guess it took his spirit.”

I asked if there were more personal reasons that such old news had such big impact.

“I hate to go into this,” Gutenberg said, “but I was very confused when I came back from the service, maybe like John. Kind of wandered around, trying to find myself. I couldn’t adjust. I couldn’t find a job. I was angry. I could have gone either way. Maybe that’s why I relate to John so much — I could have gone that way too.”

Was there anything he planned to do with this news?

“I’m going to post it to my fellow veterans. And I want to make sure we all salute John and remember him for the person he was. He wasn’t a throwaway.”

At that, Gerard Gutenberg’s voice caught again.

He thanked me for writing the article and said he had taken enough of my time.

He wished me peace.

mpatinkin@projo.com